Mountain Storms (17 page)

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY-TWO

T
HE
F
IGHT

“I've heard tell something about the way you made a fool out of the gang that tenderfoot took up into the hills,” Bill was saying. “I've heard tell about it. But you ain't the only one that they've tried to hunt down and ain't been able to. No, kid, you ain't the only one. I had a brother once. They started after him, a good hundred of 'em, but they never got him.”

“How long did your brother keep them away?” asked Tom with sudden interest.

“How long?” said Bill. “Why, they didn't never catch him. Eight, nine years ago, along in the spring, he come up into the hills with about a million of 'em after him. But they never put a hand on him. He got clean of 'em all.” He laughed and beat his hand on the table until the tins jumped and rattled.

“I sure wish that I'd been around to see how the old boy managed it. He was a hard one, he was. And he just stepped out and walked away from the whole crew of 'em!”

“Eight, nine years,” Tom repeated, his idea growing more certain, although he still wanted the proof more complete. “And he's been away all this time?”

“He faded out so complete,” said Bill, “that nobody ever seen him again, not even me. But I figure that I know where he went. He had some pals in Australia. That's a good country for a gent that wants freedom. That's where he must've gone.”

Tom drew a deep breath. For all the years that lay between, he felt again the heavy hand of the giant in his cave, and heard the deep, growling voice. And Bill was like a larger reincarnation.

“When I got tired having them fool with me,” said Bill, “I remembered what he done. I came the same direction, and I done the same thing.”

But here Tom shook his head. “Not quite the same,” he said.

The joy was stricken from the face of Bill. “Eh?” he grunted, and, staring at Tom, his brute face worked with astonishment and the beginnings of fear.

“I went down to Turnbull,” said Tom, “and, while I was there, I heard men talking about you.”

“The devil you did!” thundered Bill, and instinctively his huge hand gripped the butt of the revolver, and his glance roved through the door and across the clearing. “Nobody's ever seen me,” he continued fiercely. “Nobody but you!” He centered a malignant gaze upon Tom.

“I heard them talking about the killing of Dick Walker,” said Tom. “Someone must have seen you in the hills, because they talked about a man of your size. I don't suppose that there is another like you in the mountains around here.”

“Nor around no place,” Bill said proudly. “Gents of my size don't come along in pairs. But what did they say?”

“They said that not many men were capable of beating Dick Walker. That was why they thought it must have been you.”

“It must have been somebody that knew me back in Elkhorn,” said Bill thoughtfully. “I had a falling-out with Walker there just before I had to leave town. But I left word for Dick that I'd get the skunk sooner or later. I seen 'em make that camp and pile up the stuff after you'd made a fool of 'em and snaked their hosses away. So I went down and called on Walker. They said that nobody could stand up to Walker in a square and fair fight. But I done just that! It wasn't no murder. It was a fair killing. I beat him to the draw. That was all there was to it.” He spread out his great arms and grinned with a ghastly triumph. “It was close, at that,” said Bill meditatively. “I heard his slug whisper by my ear while he was a-falling. He was dead when he pulled the trigger, but he shot straight enough, at that. Yep, Dick was a hard kid.” He nodded and chuckled. It was a horrible thing to Tom to see his exultation. “But they're coming, hunting me?” Bill said suddenly. “D'you hear 'em say that?”

“No,” said Tom.

“But what started you on my trail?”

“I thought I'd find you. I found the shell you snapped out of the gun about a mile from the place. That gave me the line you'd traveled. I hit your fire on top of the mountain. . . .”

“You lie!” cried the giant. “It must have been washed away by the rains!”

“One side of a stone was black with the soot of your fire,” said Tom.

The other grunted, and his little eyes opened with wonder. “You sure read a trail close,” he said.

“Then I came on,” said Tom. “After a while, I came on your sign. You were taking your time, you know.”

“I can hurry when I want to,” said Bill. “I can break their hearts easy enough if they press me. But I didn't figure that I had any call to hurry right then. Otherwise, you wouldn't never have found me, son.”

“I suppose not,” said Tom.

“But where one gent can follow, another can follow. And by coming over the same way, it'll be like a paved road for the rest of 'em,” groaned Bill. “I wish you'd minded your own business and kept away. Why'd you want to horn in and spoil my game? Did I ask you to come down here and call on me like a fool?”

Wild with anger, he fingered the butt of his revolver, and the sweat came cold on the forehead of Tom, yet he managed to meet the glare of Bill squarely.

“I'm sorry,” he said. “Shall I put some wood in the stove?”

“Go do it!” snapped Bill.

Tom rose leisurely, stretched, looked out of the doorway into the sunlit clearing, and listened again. Far, far away, like a ghost on the steady wind, he had heard the baying of a pack of dogs. Why did not Bill hear it? But when he turned, he saw that the face of the larger man was not intent in listening. Perhaps his ears were less keenly attuned. At any rate, it meant that the time of Tom was short.

He turned to the stove, took off the lids, and then leaned to pick up a chunk of wood. He reached for the largest and heaviest stick, and, as his fingers closed around it, something like the passing of a shadow, a chill sweeping over his spine, made him wince away just as the hand and the heavy, clubbed revolver of Bill shot down past his head.

Full of suspicion of this unbidden guest, Bill had not been able to get rid of him with a bullet so long as he was unarmed, but the moment his back was turned the conscience of Bill was at ease. Only that lightning dodge to the side had saved Tom from a crushed skull.

He whirled like a cat and struck at the flash of the gun. The billet of wood hit the hand—the gun was knocked spinning toward the door and through it. The roar of Bill, as he jerked back his wounded hand, was as loud as the roar of Jerry in a moment of fury. Tom sprung back, appalled— and received the teeth of Tiger as the big brute fastened his grip on Tom's leg. Yet he dared venture hardly a glance at the dog. One look, and he struck with all his force. The heavy stick landed squarely across the eyes of Tiger and dropped him with a groan, but the blow snapped the stick across and left Tom unarmed to meet the rush of the giant.

All the advantage of his agility was gone. In an instant the giant had closed on him. He could only duck his head under a blow that would have knocked him senseless, never to reawaken. Then the huge arms were wrapped around him. But, in ducking with lowered head, he had thrown his left elbow before him. The enveloping pressure of the big man drove that elbow like a spear into the bones of his chest.

The pain made Bill shout, and in that instant Tom whirled out of the grip of the giant. But so tremendous was the strength of Bill that the tattered remnants of Tom's buckskin shirt remained in his hands, and Tom was naked to the waist. Bill snatched a rifle from the wall—no time to level and aim it—and he flung it at Tom's head. It flew past him as he swerved. Instead of running, as the giant had expected, Tom darted in and flashed both hands into the giant's face.

Trained by many a bruising combat with Jerry to strike speedily beyond conception and with pile-driver force, Tom raised a red welt on the cheek of Bill with one of those blows, and the other slashed the flesh over a cheekbone and let the blood flow in a stream down his face.

Bill struck in turn with all his might. But he had been stung, and hurt men strike short. Just past the face of Tom his blow swept, and the long, darting arms of the smaller man rammed home again into the face of Bill. In either hand there was force enough to have dropped a common man, stunned and helpless, but the solid jaw of Bill took the blows and telegraphed only a faint shock and a small pain to that small, brute brain.

But he was blind with utter rage. He came in, head down, to crush Tom against the wall. It was like trying to corner a wildcat. He struck thin air and battered himself against the logs. Before he could turn, he received a blow like that of a four-pound sledge swung by a strong hand, landing just beneath and behind his ear. This time he was staggering. He reeled around and met a volley of cutting blows that brought a fresh trickle from his nose and cut his mouth. But here, again, strokes that would have stunned a prize fighter were merely like the sting of a spur to Bill. His slow brain quickened into life again. He saw clearly, and knew that he could never stand at a distance and exchange blows with this shadowy enemy who seemed to carry a hammerhead in either fist. He lowered his head and came in again, but more slowly, his arms outstretched to grip his enemy.

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY-THREE

W
ITH THE
P
OSSE
C
LOSE
B
Y

For every foot the giant advanced, a pair of driving blows crashed against his head, and just as he thought he was sure to close and set his crushing hands on Tom, the latter flung himself to the side. One hand gripped his shoulder. He tore himself out of the hold, even though those terrible fingers flayed off his skin as though they were iron pincers. A crimson trickle ran down his body as he whirled and struck again.

Bill swept a roundabout swing at the head of Tom. It was like striking at a bobbing cork. The blow went wild, and his ribs sagged an instant later as both fists whipped home into his body. This was far worse than blows to the head. His fat abdomen was not meant to withstand such shocks. A mist of sickness clouded his eyes. With a groan he rushed once more, and once more his arms closed on empty air.

He was despairing when he turned. His face had been cut to ribbons. One eye was almost closed. Blood trickled over the other, and still that terrible phantom swayed and dodged before him, and, when he struck, his arm lunged through nothingness.

If only he could get to close quarters. He plunged in again. And again he saw the smaller man waver in a feint to one side, then plunge to the other, but, as he leaped, his foot landed on the barrel of the fallen rifle, which slipped and rolled under his weight. Down went Tom and sprang up again like a bounding rubber ball. But it was too late. That instant had given Bill time to close, and now with a savage shout of joy he flung himself on Tom. One arm passed around the body of Tom. The other hand fastened on his throat, and he whined and sobbed with hysterical joy.

It seemed to Tom that the tendons of his throat were being sprung asunder from the bone. The blood rushed into his face. His eyes swelled out. In vain he clubbed his fists and beat them into that bleeding face. The giant laughed through his teeth and increased his pressure.

A sound of rushing, tumbling water poured into the ears of Tom. Yet he fought swiftly, even though a veil was falling over his senses. He pressed one arm up between himself and the chest of Bill. He passed that arm over the wrist that was beneath his chin. On that leverage he cast a resistless pressure by leaping off the floor and spinning his whole weight into the air. The grip was torn from his throat.

He pitched to the floor, but the giant had toppled, also, and they regained their feet at the same time and stood swaying and exhausted. In three brief minutes of battle they had poured out all their strength.

Then it was that condition began to tell in favor of Tom. To be sure, Bill was well conditioned himself, but he had never known the life of exposure and hardship that was Tom's average life. His muscles had not been turned into so much seasoned whipcord. The exertions had sapped his wind. But two deep breaths dragged into Tom's straining lungs revived him once more.

He slipped aside from the next rush of the giant, whirled, and met him with a blow behind which was his entire power. His fist landed just beside the point of the big man's chin. The shock of it sent a numb tingle to Tom's shoulder, but it stopped Bill in his tracks.

The left fist followed the right, made doubly strong by an electric spark of hope. He cried out softly with joy as the giant gave back with a groan of despair and bewilderment. He lunged again and suddenly, with the terror and the joy of a gambler taking a last chance. Tom stood his ground, his back to the wall, and struck again with all his might. Again the blow landed on the point of the giant's jaw.

Constant hammering will make the staunchest stone crumble. While the first strokes had hardly fazed Bill, the continual dinting of those iron-hard fists had had an effect. A numb area had been growing in his brain. Now it seemed to Tom that the knees of the big man sagged a little under the weight of the punch. At least, it stopped him short again.

He swung his thick arm, and, taking another chance, Tom allowed it to land. But there was still weight enough in that tired arm to lift him off his feet as the fist struck his chest and sent him crashing into the wall. With a gasp he rebounded, braced himself, and drove both fists again into the face of Bill. And again he stopped the big man.

He discovered that there was a world of difference between hitting while on the run and striking while both his feet were planted. He saw the head of the giant roll, and crimson spattered out of the clogged wet beard as he struck. He shifted in a little, and again, with feet spread and planted, he struck. The jaw of Bill drooped. His eyes grew blank. Vaguely he swung at the head of Tom, and the latter stepped in and shot his own fist inside the arc of that swaying arm. The blow landed fair and true on the jaw. That jaw was loose now. Tom felt it give horribly, as though the bones were broken, and Bill slumped to his knees, his back against the wall. It was a grim thing to do, but there could be no chances taken with this brute of a man. Tom crouched and struck again mercilessly. The blow drove the loose head back against the logs. And Bill toppled forward on his face and lay, immense and sprawling, on the floor.

As Tom stood above him, weak-kneed all at once, and gasping for breath, hardly able to realize that of his own power he had been able to beat the giant to insensibility, something which had been forming in his brain as a vague worry now grew clear and defined. It was the baying of a dog pack growing momentarily closer. The posse was near at hand.

He ran to the door and closed and bolted it. He went back to the fallen body that was now groaning. With a cord he secured the wrists and then the feet of the big man. Last, he turned the giant upon his back, then tugged the inert figure to a sitting position, back against the wall.

Bill opened his eyes and looked wildly about him. He glared at Tom with a slow comprehension of what had happened. His jaw sagged as though another blow had landed in the clotted beard at the point of his chin.

“Well,” he said finally, “that was a pretty good bout.” He tried to laugh. The result was a horrible mimicry of mirth. It ended as he saw the grim face of Tom and the naked torso striped with crimson that had flowed from Tom's torn throat.

“Stand up,” said Tom.

The giant rose obediently, swaying on his bound feet.

First Tom reerected the fallen table. “Now sit down there,” he said, pointing to a stool that he had placed near the table.

Bill hopped clumsily on his bound feet to the stool and sat down. Tiger, beginning to waken from his swoon, groaned feebly. That sound was echoed by an ear-filling burst of music from the approaching pack, and Bill gasped with terror.

“What's that?” he cried.

“The posse,” Tom answered. “They're coming to get me for the killing of Dick Walker. But they'll get you, instead. Bill, you're going to write on the top of the table . . . ‘I killed Dick Walker.' And after that you'll put your name under it. Do you hear?”

The tongue of Bill lolled out across his lips. He stared, fascinated, at Tom.

“D'you want me to put the rope around my neck?” he gasped.

“If I hadn't dodged you a little while ago,” Tom said quietly, “they would have run you down for murder. It's all one, Bill. Write on that table. Here's some charcoal that will do.” As he spoke, he passed a rope around Bill's waist, fastened his left hand to it, and loosened the right. He picked his own revolver out of the holster hanging on the wall. He leveled it at the big man.

“Write!” he commanded.

But Bill, shuddering, shook his head. The baying of the pack came crashing through the forest. There was hardly a minute left to Tom. Another thought came to him. The poker, when he opened the stove, had been allowed to tip into the fire. He lifted it out. The end was red-hot. He knew that Jerry dreaded fire with a consummate fear. Might not this huge beast of a man have the same fear?

He leveled the white, gleaming end of the poker close to the forehead of Bill. “Write,” he commanded, “or I'll write with this in your face!”

“No, no,” groaned Bill. “Lord! Get that thing away. I'll write!” With sagging jaw, whining like a beaten dog, he scratched the words across the surface of the table:

I killed Dick Walker.
Bill McKenzie